Meeting Rochefort
by fuxfell
Summary: Athos is summoned by Rochefort for a private meeting. Things go about as bad as you'd expect. Not for the faint of heart.
1. Meeting Rochefort

_This is actually the first time I feel the need to apologize before posting a story. It's totally not my fault, I swear!_

 _I was watching the show with a friend, I told her I was writing an Athos slash story, and she said, full of dread, that she sure hoped I was not pairing him up with Rochefort. Completely appalled, I answered: "Of course not! How would those two end up together?", and bang! - there was this in my head. I shuddered and tried to get rid of it, but it just_ would not go away! _It just stuck in my head until I finally caved and wrote it down. And then it simmered on my hard disk, demanding to be let loose on innocent, unsuspecting readers._

 _Of course my friend, who started it all, denies all responsibility and won't even read it further than the first part. Because, oh yes, it just would not leave me alone, and now it's kind of a trilogy._

 _My mind is a scary place sometimes._

 _So, what I posted here is just the start of the story. You can read a bit and see if you would like to read the rest, which can be found on my AO3 account. Just go to Archive of Our Own and search for fuxfell, and you will find it. I can't post it here, because it would be torn down fast enough to leave burn marks._

 _Because, as you can imagine, any story involving Rochefort would not be pretty. This is the most disturbing thing I cranked out so far. It contains flat out rape (no dancing around calling it non-con), drug use, humiliation and a lot of craziness, mostly on Rochefort's part. Because let's face it, the man is mad as a hatter._

 _Still, even if I loathe the guy, there's something about him that fascinates me. I just dig those dark, brooding, obsessive types. And poor Athos has to suffer for it._

 _Oh, and it's basically PWP._

 _You've been warned._

* * *

Frowning, Athos throws one last glance on the scrap of paper in his hands before crushing it and stuffing it in his pockets.

 _The Comte de Rochefort requests your presence in his lodgings. Tonight, at the twentieth hour. Timeliness is requested._

Signed with a lazily scrawled "R."

Damn. What could Rochefort want from him? Athos eyes the entrance to the pompous mansion suspiciously. Is he making a mistake, coming here?

Rochefort is a bastard, and he hates the man from the bottom of his heart. Still, he is First Minister now, the king's confidante. You don't ignore a summons from the First Minister.

And would Rochefort try something underhanded in is own home? The man is sly and slick as a worm, always making sure he comes up clean under scrutiny. Making sure none of his crimes can be traced back to him.

If he was planning something nefarious, he would not ask for a meeting in his home.

Surely not.

Squaring his shoulders and putting his face in neutral, Athos lifts the heavy knocker and lets it fall back with a resonating noise. Shortly after, the door swings open, showing the distinguished figure of what had to be Rochefort's majordomo, an elderly man in a sombre suit - looking more regal than his master ever did.

With a respectful bow, the man makes way for Athos to enter, closing the door behind him and gingerly accepting Athos' hat and coat.

"The Comte is expecting you in his office, sir", he says, every word pronounced with care. "If you would follow me, please?"

Athos just nods, not able to shake the foreboding he has about this, telling himself he is being paranoid. He follows the butler through gloomy halls full of dark, gloomy furniture and equally gloomy portraits of what were probably a long line of Comtes and Comtesses, and shudders inwardly. Gloomy seems to be the overall theme. This was where Rochefort grew up? No wonder the guy lost most of his marbles. The atmosphere is stifling, daunting.

The majordomo knocks at a dark and polished door, then opens it. "Your visitor has arrived, my lord", he says respectfully, and with another perfectly executed bow indicates for Athos to enter.

With a deep breath, Athos steps into the room, instantly feeling somewhat relieved. Obviously, Rochefort is not so fond of the dismal pompousness and oppressive air of the mansion himself, because his own room, while still quite opulent, is held in lighter colours, and modern furnishings, beside being well lit, scores of candles burning in sconces along the walls.

Athos relaxes a little and nods to Rochefort, who looks up from a parchment he is reading at his desk. The man looks slightly dishevelled, as he always does, his blond hair tousled, as if he was driving his fingers through it repeatedly, his black shirt open over his muscular chest, a row of chains and pendants peeking out from under the fabric. His dark blue eyes are intense as he gazes at Athos, returning the nod.

The man is a bastard, but even Athos has to admit he is a handsome one. No wonder he managed to win the queen's favour. _And_ the king's.

The door closes behind Athos with a soft click, and Rochefort puts the parchment down on his desk, gesturing at one of the rich leather chairs placed in front of his desk.

"Please, have a seat", he says in his pleasant, full baritone.

How can such a comely shell hide so much rottenness underneath?

Athos sits down, returning Rochefort's stare coolly. "Well?", he just says. No reason for small talk, after all. This is not a dinner party.

Rochefort gets up with a smooth motion and procures two glasses from a sideboard behind him. He holds up a decanter with a dark red liquid, probably port, and raises his eyebrows questioningly. Athos just shrugs. He does not care what he drinks, as long as it helps speed things up. He wants out of here.

Rochefort fills two glasses and passes one to Athos, sitting back in his chair, sipping. His gaze passes through Athos now, not really seeing him, his mind obviously elsewhere.

Athos takes a mouthful of the wine as well. Port, as expected. Strong, sweet, probably costing more than he makes in a year as a musketeer. Something that would have been found in his wine cellar in the old days.

Athos shakes the thought away. The Comte de la Fère no longer exists. Neither does his wine cellar.

He clears his throat, and Rochefort's eyes snap to him, his mind drawn back to the present.

"My apologies", he says, smoothly.

Athos shifts impatiently, taking another sip of the wine. He's not interested in Rochefort's courtesy. He wants the guy to talk, already. "So, what's this about?", he asks, bluntly, not seeing any need to play nice with the man.

Rochefort smiles faintly. "So... direct", he murmurs. "As you wish. There is a matter I need to discuss with you. A rather... delicate matter. Concerning the dauphin." He leans back, drinking, observing Athos over the rim of his glass, those intense eyes missing nothing.

Athos nearly chokes on his own sip of wine. Dear mother of god. This can not be good.

"The... dauphin?" Athos asks, his voice carefully neutral. "I hope he is well? Is there any cause for concern?"

"Oh, the queen's son is alive and well", Rochefort answers, and the choice of words is not lost on Athos. He takes another deep gulp of wine, letting the glass hide his face.

This is not good. Not good at all.

"I was worried, for a moment", Athos replies, ignoring the implication of Rochefort's words. The room suddenly feels stifling and hot. He takes another sip of the cool wine, hoping it would help.

"Well", Rochefort says, putting down his glass while watching Athos like a hawk. "There's still the problem that, in fact, there _is_ no dauphin."

Athos jumps up. "What are you...", he starts, but does not finish the sentence. The room is suddenly spinning around him, and he has to catch himself on the back of the heavy leather chair to keep on his feet. His head feels light, his thoughts tangled.

And Rochefort is still watching with that faint smile on his face.

Athos' gaze is drawn to his nearly empty glass. "You bastard", he slurs, his tongue suddenly clumsy in his mouth. "What...?"

Rochefort's smile widens slightly. "Nothing too bad, don't worry", he answers. "You will be out in a few seconds, but it won't kill you."

The last words ring hollow in Athos's ears as the floor comes rushing up to meet his face. Then there is only darkness.

* * *

 _So, this is as far as I dare go here. You're very welcome to read the rest on Archive of Our Own. Also, feel free to leave me a comment, though I dread to think what people might have to say about this ;)_


	2. Turnabout's a Bitch

_This is the second part of my Athos/Rochefort story. It's not getting any less disturbing, so the same warnings as for the first part apply. The beginning is posted here, and as with the first part, the ugly rest can be found on Archive of Our Own. If you'd like to read the rest, please go to my account there. So... um... enjoy?_

 _Edit: I heard that some people can't find this story on AO3. I can't explain that, because it's there. Doing a search for fuxfell should turn up all my stories posted there, and this one will be among them. Sorry if it's giving you any trouble._

* * *

Athos stares down at his "prisoner", his eyes burning. Revenge is going to be a bitch.

Rochefort is just coming to, groaning softly, his dark lashes fluttering. His eyes open, and he blinks, his deep blue irises still unfocused. He shifts on the bed, but since he's tied down, he can't really move.

Abruptly, his eyes zoom in on Athos, suddenly alert. His mouth tightens, but that is the only reaction he lets on. Athos leans against the wall, returning the stare wordlessly.

None of them moves or speaks for some time, while Athos tries to get up his resolve. And he needs a _lot_ of resolve to go through with this.

He has to do it, though. Has to. To regain control of the situation. Control of his life. Erase the feeling of helplessness, being defenceless and completely at another's mercy. Weak. It's been eating away at him for the last weeks, exactly as Rochefort intended.

He remembers perfectly, just as Rochefort told him. Remembers begging for it, moaning like a bitch in heat. Being touched by another man should make his skin crawl, doubly so if said man is _Rochefort_. Instead, he clung to the guy, pleading for more, _begging for cock_.

Athos' stare is drawn to Rochefort's mouth, those narrow, but beautifully formed lips.

He has been _kissing_ that mouth. Hot, wet and open. Hungrily. Sobbing with need.

A growl tears from his throat. He might have been able to live with the rest, humiliating as it has been. But that kiss is branded into his memory. That kiss is what broke him then, what threatens to break him for good. What he keeps dreaming about at night, haunting him in his sleep.

And he refuses to break. He _will_ take control again. Turn the tables. Do unto others as has been done onto him.

And then, he will be able to move on.

Two quick steps bring him to Rochefort's side, and he drops down on his knees, his hand fisting the short blond hair. It feels soft between his fingers. Silky. With another growl he brutally pulls the other man's head back, just like Rochefort did to him, using the inevitable pained gasp to pour something into Rochefort's mouth.

Rochefort coughs, trying to spit it out, but Athos' hands clamp around his jaws like a vise, the other pinching his nose shut. Rochefort struggles like a tiger, trying to yank his head free, but finally, he has to swallow. Athos lets go, and Rochefort gasps for air, his eyes closing in defeat.

When they open again, Athos sees fear in those eyes for the first time ever, a haunted expression. Resignation. Rochefort knows exactly what's to come.

"Where did you get it?", he asks, softly.

"Wasn't hard", Athos shrugs. "You're not the only one spending time in a Spanish prison. That stuff seems quite en vogue there. I also got this." He holds up a second bottle, containing the viscous white fluid.

Rochefort's eyes close again, resigned to his fate. He does not speak, does not move.

Athos opens the bottle, dripping some of the white stuff on Rochefort's limp cock. Rochefort makes a small noise, full of despair, and Athos fights the guilty feeling that rises in his throat. He's not the bad guy here. This is just retaliation. An eye for an eye.

And then he will be able to put it all behind him.

He should spread the stuff around like Rochefort has done, but he can't bring himself to touch Rochefort... there. He just pours more, hoping it will spread on his own. Rochefort's cock starts hardening, and another desolate whimper escapes his mouth.

With a jerky motion, Athos puts the stopper back on.

"Could not... keep away?", Rochefort taunts, despite his breathing getting ragged, but his voice is bleak. "Was it... that good for you?"

"Don't flatter yourself", Athos bites out, throwing Rochefort's words back at him. "This is a means to an end. Turnabout's a bitch, Rochefort. You will not break me. After this, my life is my own again."

Rochefort laughs, a harsh, wheezing noise. "Wonder if that's going to work out for you", he gasps, his body twitching as the drug takes effect.

Athos just grits his teeth, refusing to answer. "See you in a while", just says, and turns to the door.

* * *

 _This is as far as I dare post here, but it should give you an idea about what to expect. Again, for the daring, the rest can be found on AO3._


	3. The Games we Play

iSo I finally worked up the courage to post the third part. Um. I kinda sorta might even be working on a fourth part. Don't know how that happened... So. Here it is. The third part of this trainwreck of a story. It's not as bad as the first two parts though, I hope, but I'll let you readers be the judge of that./i

* * *

Athos frowns as he regards the posh inn, then draws the crumpled note out of his pocket, checking the address once more. It matches.

Why ever would Porthos want to meet him here, to discuss the matter of Aramis? He probably was looking for neutral ground, away from prying eyes and ears, but still this seems not exactly like an establishment Porthos would frequent.

On the other hand, if he wanted to work on a plan to get Aramis out of prison, out of Rochefort's clutches, maybe it makes sense to look for a locale no one would expect you to choose. Because in all probability such a plan would be something completely reckless the captain would have their hides for even contemplating.

Rochefort. Just thinking of him makes Athos burn with hatred. He can't believe he ever felt a smidgen of sympathy for the man. The night he had tied the guy to the bed seems like a dream – or rather a nightmare - by now. Unreal.

Because while Athos was still reeling with guilt over what he did to Rochefort, the bastard was already plotting - and executing - another plan for their downfall. This time taking the queen down with them, and setting Aramis up for execution.

So if Porthos has any ideas how to turn this situation around, Athos is totally game. No matter how reckless.

Determined, he enters the inn and looks around, taking in the place. It's a nice, middle class establishment, respectable, but not overly luxurious. A bit sombre perhaps.

So unlike Porthos.

Shrugging, he walks up to the reception, where an elderly man with a carefully waxed moustache smiles at him in greeting. When Athos introduces himself and asks for Porthos, the man nods and checks his ledgers.

"Bonsoir, Monsieur Athos. M. du Vallon is expecting you in room..." his finger slides along the ledger until he reaches Porthos' name, "... fourteen. It's up the stairs on the second floor. Refreshments have already been served. If you need anything, please ring the bell."

Athos thanks the man and makes his way up the brightly lit stairs and down the short corridor of the second floor, until he reaches a door marked fourteen. After a short knock he enters, but stops in his tracks, gaping in disbelief at the sight that meets his eyes.

The room is largely what he expected, clean, respectable, comfortable if not posh, with a large bed, a dark wooden table flanked by a couple of cushioned chairs, and an armoire at the far wall, but the man awaiting him inside is not Porthos.

At the table, looking slightly dishevelled as always, with his shirt gaping open to show the smooth skin of his chest and his collection of chains and pendants peeking out sits Rochefort, seeming totally relaxed, leaning backwards in the chair with his booted feet propped up on the table. He is regarding Athos with an inscrutable expression in his dark blue eyes.

Athos hisses, taking a step forward, his hand going for his trusted rapier, the impulse to run Rochefort through nearly irresistible.

Rochefort makes no move to get up, just lifts his hand in a stopping motion. "That", he says sharply, "would be a grave mistake."

His own hand clenched around the grip of his weapon so hard his knuckles go white, Athos growls. "Give me one reason I should not kill you."

Rochefort's lips curl back in something that is not exactly a smile. "First, because I won't go down easily. And second, I'm the only one who can save your comrade from certain death. That's two reasons, but I'm sure I could think up more if you wish."

Athos grits his teeth, but refrains from attacking - for now. He doubts Rochefort would really do anything to save Aramis, seeing that he is the one causing all the chaos and suffering, but he can't risk blowing this if there is even the slightest chance to get Rochefort to relent.

"What do you want?", he snarls, his fingers not releasing the grip of his rapier yet.

"Sit", Rochefort says, indicating at the chair opposite to him, and with stiff, angry movements, Athos does.

Rochefort pulls his feet from the table, sits up, and draws his other hand out of his pocket. He puts something on the table, idly pushing a small flagon back and forth. Athos eyes are glued to the small bottle with the familiar amber liquid, and he feels the blood drain from his face as dread settles in his stomach.

"No way", he says, his voice taking on a hoarse note. "I'm _not_ letting you tie me up again. You're _not_ feeding that stuff to me."

But he knows it's just posturing. To save Aramis, he will resign to anything, even if the thought makes his bowels churn with fear.

Rochefort looks up from the bottle, meeting his eyes, and smiles without humour. He picks the flagon up, turning it between his fingers, then pulls the stopper, and sets it to his lips.

Staring in disbelief, Athos watches the other man drink with quick, determined swallows. When Rochefort sets the bottle back on the table, half the content is gone.

A double dose.

Still stunned, Athos meets that eerily intense blue gaze, his own eyes wide with shock, and again shudders at the hint of madness lurking in those depths. It seems that Rochefort did slide even closer to the edge since their last encounter. Briefly, Athos wonders if he is responsible for that, if he was the one setting Rochefort on a course that threatens to destroy the royal house.

Rochefort just holds his gaze, wordlessly, although his breathing quickens slightly.

"You're crazy", Athos finally chokes out, so dumbfounded it even pushes back the wrath he felt moments ago.

Rochefort smiles again, a weary little smile that does funny things to Athos, like make butterflies dance in his stomach. "That's the popular opinion", he says softly.

Athos takes his hat off and throws it on the table, forking both his hands through his hair in confusion. He just can't make heads or tails of this. What is Rochefort up to this time?

"Why?", he finally asks the only question that comes to his mind.

Rochefort gets up with an abrupt, but fluid motion, and starts pacing the room. Already his face seems slightly more flushed than minutes ago. His fingers slide through his hair, making it look even more tousled than usual.

Athos can't help but think how good that looks on the man.

How silky that hair felt between his fingers.

Rochefort blessedly stops this thought when he leans with his back to the wall, his chest moving with his quick breaths. The drug must be taking effect by now. He closes his eyes for a second, then opens them again to stare at Athos, and again Athos is struck by the darkness in Rochefort's eyes, the madness lurking in them, the desperation.

"Because I'm drowning, Athos", Rochefort replies softly, a hoarse note in his voice. "Been drowning for years, but I always had a lifeline to hold on to. Now it's turned out to be a straw. And I'm going under."

"The queen", Athos breathes, the final piece of the puzzle falling into place. "That's why you're doing all this. Why you hate Aramis so much."

Rochefort's eyes close, but not before Athos sees the pain flit through them. Then Rochefort hisses, and his back bows slightly off the wall. Athos can't help but notice the bulge forming under the black leather of his pants.

"Will you watch as I drown, Athos?", Rochefort asks, his voice strained, breathless. "Or will you throw me a line?"

Athos stares at the other man, his feelings more confused than he ever thought possible. Seeing Rochefort like this, realizing how damaged, how broken the guy is, knowing what has been done to him in the past, finally understanding what drives him to do what he does, knowing what it must cost Rochefort to leave himself vulnerable like this, he just can't hold on to the simple hate he felt so far.

Oh, he still hates the man. No question about that. But underneath that, there's understanding. And yes, pity. Damn, even a connection. He can relate.

And as Rochefort hisses again, his hand going for the bulge in his pants, only to ball it into a fist and force it back to his side, his body wrecked by tremors, something else mixes into that emotional cocktail, something visceral. Hungry.

"God, that's strong", Rochefort bites out. "Might run out of time here, Athos."

"Why me?", Athos asks, his voice husky. "Of all people, why me? You hate me."

Rochefort laughs, but it turns into a wheeze as another tremor runs through him. He opens his eyes, and Athos has the impression of staring right into the abyss. He shivers.

"Oh, I do", Rochefort whispers harshly. "But you _understand_ , Athos. You know what it's like being hollow. Empty. Clinging to the one person that could fill that void, and see your hopes turn to dust. To watch from afar as someone else takes what you crave most in the world. To be unwanted. To chase a dream only to find that reality is a bitter bitch intent on tearing your heart to shreds."

Rochefort shudders, slumping a little as his breathing grows ragged. His arms shake with the effort to keep from touching himself, his hands are balled to fists so tight his knuckles turn white.

"Athos...", he gasps.

Frozen, Athos stares at the man for endless seconds, watching him struggle, feeling like someone just floored him.

Because Rochefort is right. He _does_ understand.

On so many levels, they are the same.

He watches Rochefort fight against the effects of the drug, and the familiar shameful heat washes through him. Rochefort is... beautiful in his suffering. Alluring.

With shaking hands Athos reaches for the small bottle, feeling Rochefort's eyes burn him.

Quickly, before he can think better of it, he downs the remains of the amber liquid.

A double dose.

Because he needs it to go through with what he's about to do.

Not for the aphrodisiac effect.

So he can pretend his body is not perfectly ready to do this anyway.

That he does not, in fact, want this.

It seems like Rochefort is not the only madman in this room.

Athos stumbles to his feet and makes his way through the chamber, never taking his eyes from Rochefort's.

Rochefort is openly panting by now, his pupils dilated, his body shaking. And Athos is hard, so hard, and he tries not to think of the fact that the amber stuff had no time to affect him yet.

This is his enemy. Another man.

He should be filled with ice-cold disgust.

But instead, he's _burning_.

He leans against Rochefort, chest to chest, and licks a slow line along Rochefort's neck, from his shoulder to his jaw. They both gasp, and Athos shudders when Rochefort's back bows, pressing that beautiful body harder into his own.

Rochefort mewls, his hands digging into Athos's shoulders, and then Rochefort's mouth finds Athos', aggressively, invading, demanding. Athos moans as the fire in him flares, making his cock pulse angrily, his hands grabbing Rochefort's narrow hips, gripping with what must be a painful force. Rochefort does not seem to mind. He rolls his hips, the bulge in his leathers sliding along the answering one Athos' pants.

Athos can't tell anymore if the drug finally takes effect, or if it just comes naturally, but he's on fire, the need to possess drowning out all rational thought. He starts dragging Rochefort in the direction of the bed, his mouth wandering to the man's neck, kissing, licking, sucking, biting in a frenzy.

Rochefort keens, a needy, plaintive noise, and starts ripping at Athos clothes. It's hard to undress without letting go of the other person, but somehow they manage to lose most of their clothing. Some of it even remains intact in the process.

Tumbling on the mattress Athos seeks Rochefort's mouth again for another of those hungry kisses.

"Fill me, Athos", Rochefort whispers into his mouth.

And Athos does.

xxx

Athos can't tell how much time has passed when they finally collapse back onto the twisted sheets, both panting heavily, bodies sated for now. It has been a wild ride, both of them frantic and feral, the need burning through them more and more demanding.

"Oh God", Athos pants, still completely breathless.

He still can't believe he did all of that with another man. It's unthinkable. He never felt any... urges in that direction. So he decides to blame it all on the drug. But he has to admit the experience has been anything but unpleasant this time, without the agonizing built up.

Rochefort moves a bit backwards, until his back touches Athos' chest, and Athos has to force himself not to think about how much this resembles cuddling.

No cuddling Rochefort. Or else his mind might boggle.

"I think God forgot about both of us a long time ago", Rochefort answers, equally breathless, a hint of bitterness in his voice.

He turns slightly towards Athos, and Athos gasps when his eyes fall to Rochefort's neck, for the first time noticing the many spots, bruises and bite marks he left behind there. "Holy mother of God", he whispers, shocked, tracing the markings with the tips of his fingers. "I think I... got a little carried away there."

Rochefort laughs, and Athos blinks, stunned. The laugh is open and carefree, so unlike Rochefort, and Rochefort's eyes shine with humour, the darkness in them banned, at least for now. "Don't apologize before you've seen your back", he smirks.

Now that Rochefort mentions it, his back is burning somewhat fierce. Athos dimly remembers there has been a lot of clawing involved, but at the time, he did not mind at all.

Groaning with embarrassment, Athos drops back into the pillows and closes his eyes. "I don't know what I'm doing anymore", he says, helplessly.

Rochefort gives a dry chuckle as he sits up on the bed. "Welcome to my world", he replies.

Athos groans again. "Curse you, Rochefort", he says, without any real ire.

Rochefort scoffs. "Get in line", he says drily. Then he gets up and starts gathering what's left of his clothing, dressing quickly. Athos just watches wordlessly, blushing slightly as he takes in the badly torn fabric. Has he really been that... vehement?

Oh, who is he fooling? He has been _rabid_.

This is truly mortifying. If only the floor would open up to swallow him whole.

"All the drug's fault", he mutters to himself.

Rochefort looks up, his gaze inscrutable. Obviously the guy has ears like a fox. "Did not use it the first time", he says, matter-of-factly. "And _you_ did not the second time around."

As Athos slumps with embarrassment and covers his eyes with his hands, Rochefort throws on his wide cloak, hiding the damage underneath. "The room is paid for", he says, his back to Athos. "See you tomorrow."

With that, he is out of the room before Athos can utter a word.

As the door clicks shut, Athos starts, sitting upright, groaning as he slaps his forehead with his palm.

He has been so busy feeling embarrassed that he completely forgot to nail Rochefort on the matter of Aramis.

Worse. He's completely forgotten there _is_ the matter of Aramis the moment his lips touched Rochefort's.

He's a total failure as a friend, and as a musketeer.

xxx

When the summons to the king comes to them the next day, Athos has a hard time to keep his face neutral, to feign the same level of ignorance the others suffer. His heart is beating madly as they follow Captain Treville to the throne room.

The sight that meets his eyes makes throat constrict. Next to the king, who wears his usual sheepish grin, the one he always sports when things go his way, sits Queen Anne, her face an impenetrable mask.

Behind the throne, Rochefort is standing, a blank expression on his face that gives away nothing.

"Brilliant news, Captain Treville", Louis croons, his inane grin widening even more. "This has all been a silly misunderstanding. That governess my wife hired – you really have to be more careful who you trust, dear – was behind it all. Rochefort found this unposted letter in her quarters. Seems like she had a crush on your man Aramis, and sought to punish him by creating this nasty rumour. I wonder what she could have been thinking. I'm forever indebted to my good friend Rochefort for uncovering her plan before someone was hurt."

He takes the queen's hand, giving her another of his childish smiles. " _Of course_ the Dauphin is my son. I never really doubted you, dear."

Athos eyes are drawn from that sickening display to the man behind the throne, meeting Rochefort's gaze and finding it already fixed on him. There's no telling what goes on in that head, the blue eyes giving nothing away.

But something looks different. Athos frowns a little, until it hits him. Other than his usual dishevelled style, today Rochefort wears a high-necked coat with an artfully arranged cravat around his throat.

The moment Athos realizes what Rochefort is hiding under his clothes, he feels the blood rising to his cheeks with embarrassment. His eyes return to Rochefort's, with a silent apology.

Rochefort's mouth quirks in the slightest of smiles, not more than a slight lift of the corners, but his eyes suddenly hold a hint of amusement, seeming to invite Athos to share the joke.

And Athos can't help but smile back.

Maybe this whole situation is salvageable after all.


End file.
